


want, need, steal, keep

by Sibilant



Series: Inception Bingo 2016 [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Handcuffs, M/M, Moral Bankruptcy, Power Dynamics, Sexual Coercion, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7731682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a hired thief working a job. Arthur catches him in the act. Things only escalate from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	want, need, steal, keep

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ‘fuck or die’ square on my bingo card.
> 
> All the thanks in the world to bauble and pyromancer for cheerleading, prereading, and beta work, as well as for holding my hand and patiently, methodically talking me through all my writing and editing stumbling blocks. And the leather gloves are a nod to marourin ;)
> 
> A word of warning before we proceed: This is ‘fuck or die’ of the manipulation/coercion variety. There is no biological imperative or chemical influence at play, just sleazy, amoral criminals being sleazy and amoral. Please heed the tags.

The job is simple.

A straightforward B&E with a spot of safecracking, no in-depth reconnaissance required, Eames’ employer having already provided both the blueprints of the house and an honest-to-God virtual walkthrough (courtesy of a real estate agent with shoddy password skills). Not exciting or challenging in the least, but if Eames can’t have excitement, he can, at least, be handsomely reimbursed for his boredom.

The only thing remotely of note had been his employer’s promise of an extra payment for delivering the goods unopened - something which Eames took to mean ‘delivering the goods with no noticeable signs of tampering’. Eames is a great believer in indulging his curiosity, and in keeping his future business opportunities as bountiful as possible, too. If the goods - whatever they may be - turn out to be valuable or in high demand… well. The black market is, at the heart of it, a free market, and evading his employer’s ire might provide the excitement the job itself lacks.

That itch, that mad urge to take the goods, and fuck off into the night grows, as he disables the security system in well under the time he’d allotted himself. It’s just all too easy.

“Yeah, but you’re not actually going to do that, right?” Robbie says, when Eames voices that said mad urge.

“Of course not,” Eames says, without pausing in working the lock.

“Eames.” Robbie shifts from foot to foot, making the torchlight bobble. “Seriously, tell me you’re not going to.”

“Hold that light still. And, my God, I was clearly joking. Keep your hair on.”

“Nothing clear about it,” Robbie says. “You’ve sold people out before.”

“Ah, well, you probably should’ve thought about that before you agreed to be the lookout on this job,” Eames says, airy. “After all, what can you do now? Go home? Go tell your boss that you spent his upfront payment - don’t shake your head at me, I know you, you’ve spent it all already - then didn’t do the job because you took a joke too seriously?” He fixes Robbie with a hard look. “Or are you going to do your job, and keep watch?”

Robbie stares back, jaw set. “I’m going to keep watch from the car,” he says finally, sullen, and makes a show of setting his watch. “You’ve got two hours. If you’re not out by then, I’m driving off without you.”

“Your loyalty is touching, truly.” Eames takes the torch from him, eases the door open, and slips inside without a backward glance.

 _This is my life now,_ he thinks. Breaking into the homes of the moderately rich and only borderline criminal, stealing things he hardly ever cares for.

Once upon a time, in his more callow years, Eames had envisioned his criminal career as being a string of daring art heists and high-speed car chases through narrow, byzantine alleyways, interspersed with parties, sex, and general hedonism. Taking his first bullet had erased the sheen from that fantasy. These days, the most Eames gets out of his jobs is the satisfaction of a job well done, and even that is beginning to feel hollow.

Despite Robbie’s warning-slash-threat, Eames takes his time moving through the house.

The place is lovely, much lovelier than its bland, inoffensive suburban exterior would suggest. Eames riffles through drawers and shelves, placing everything small and possibly of value into his backpack. There’s a lot of it. Whoever lives here is well travelled, with exacting taste.

He makes it to the study eventually, which is as meticulously furnished as the rest of the house, all polished dark wood furniture and rich, subtly patterned textiles. Eames runs gloved fingers over everything until he finds, hidden behind a panel of false books, a wall safe. And this, here, is the real reason he was hired, history of unreliability and all.

Any opportunist with moderately anti-social leanings is capable of smashing a window and grabbing what they can before running like mad. Thieves who aspire a bit higher might learn how to pick a lock, and those who aspire higher still might become proficient at disabling security systems. But not every thief can crack a safe. That’s a skill and an _art_ , and Eames is an artisan of the highest order.

The street outside is dead silent, save for the occasional passing car. Eames is not above savouring the irony of the homeowners’ association - or whatever stuffy organisation that’s responsible for the no-noise-after-10pm rule - actually making things _easier_ for him. It’s the little things he appreciates these days, since the big things are so often disappointing.

Then he gets to work.

Eames loses himself in the systematic process of determining contact points, combination length, the range of possible number sequences. His awareness begins and ends with the twitch of his fingers and the faint grind of the wheel pack; the _click-click-click_ of the drive pin grows louder, more important than his own heartbeat. Half an hour passes, then another, and the buzz of anticipation builds in him. It won’t last, but in these moments, Eames remembers why he can’t - won’t - ever get a normal job.

He gets so lost in the flow that he recognises, far too late, what the rest of his body has sensed: a flicker of movement, a creak, the displacement of air—

There’s a much louder _click_ , and the room floods with light.

Eames jumps, makes an automatic grab for the torch. He whirls around, wielding the torch like a truncheon, his free hand coming up to shield his eyes. When he lowers it, he sees a man standing in the doorway. He’s sleek, dark-haired, dressed severely in a dark suit and gloves, and - perhaps most importantly - armed with a gun.

Eames’ gut clenches. Like most people who’ve been on the receiving end of a bullet (or two), he has a healthy aversion to being shot. Eames has to force himself to breathe deeply, tamping down on the swell of panic until he’s clear-headed enough to realise, _oh—_ he knows this man.

“Arthur, right?” Eames says, feigning uncertainty. He raises his hands meekly, trying to radiate _idiot-out-of-his-depth_ with every fibre of his being. In this line of work, with the way Eames operates, it generally pays to be underestimated.

Arthur’s eyes narrow. He looks Eames up and down, scrutinises his face, but it isn’t until he stares at Eames’ mouth for a good five seconds that there’s an answering spark of recognition. Eames would be insulted, were it not for the fact that when they met, nine months ago now, Eames had been several stone lighter and sporting both a beard and a heavy Northern accent.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, finally. He smirks, but doesn’t lower his gun. “Let me guess: you’re the maintenance man.”

Eames pastes a winning smile on his face. “Security, actually,” he says, with all the faux-obsequiousness he can muster. “And I must say, the security system you’ve got in place here is woefully inadequate. You need to take better care. You never know what sort of shady characters might be hanging about, looking to take advantage.”

“Oh, is that why you’re here?” Arthur asks. “To give me a friendly warning, out of the goodness of your heart?”

“The goodness of my heart is a bit much, but for the right price, that could very well be what I’m doing.”

Arthur smiles mirthlessly. “How about you just tell me who hired you?”

“Ah.” Eames cocks his head, affecting deep thought. “Well, I suppose I could, but there’s not very much in it for me, now is there?”

“Alright, let’s try that again.” Arthur steps into the room and kicks the door shut behind him. He sights along the gun, all pretense toward geniality gone. “Who hired you?”

Eames eyes the gun. From this distance, he can see it’s a Glock - well-maintained, and likely well-used. He weighs up his chances of getting out of town before his employer realises he gave him up versus his chances of dodging a bullet fired from less than two yards away. It isn’t a particularly difficult calculation. “Valenti. Or someone working for him, anyway. The upper echelons of crime are as far removed from everyday business as I am from England. As I’m sure you know.”

“See?” Arthur says, the veneer of good humour returning. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I suppose not.” Eames waits, but Arthur says nothing, letting the silence stretch like pulled taffy. He still has the gun raised. Eames glances at the closed door beyond Arthur’s shoulder, then clears his throat. “May I leave now?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, honest disbelief flickering across his face. “No, Eames, you may not,” he says, in an atrocious attempt at Eames’ accent (and with wholly unnecessary sarcasm on the ‘may’, in Eames’ opinion; it isn’t as if correct grammar is the sole purview of the English). “You break into my house, you go through my things, you take God knows what, and…” Arthur trails off, shaking his head. “You do all that, and you think I’m just going to _let you go_?”

Eames purses his lips. “Well, when you phrase it that way, it certainly does seem terrible. But the way I see it is, you caught me red-handed before I could make off with anything, and I gave you the name of my employer. No harm, no foul, essentially. Also,” he says, delicately, “not to put too fine a point on it, this is an awful lot of outrage from a man who once hired me to break into someone _else’s_ home, and has probably committed identity theft several times over.”

“So I’m a hypocrite,” Arthur says, shrugging a shoulder. “Not the worst crime I’ve ever committed. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Eames echoes. He quirks an eyebrow. “What’s the worst?”

Arthur doesn’t reply. He looks Eames up and down again, slower this time, gaze raking over Eames’ shoulders, his chest. The dark, skin-tight cotton is practical - no loose sleeves or hems to catch on things at inopportune moments - but Eames is hardly ignorant of how he looks in it. He pulls his shoulders back, making the thin material stretch even tighter across his chest because there’s a part of him that’s always delighted in attention, no matter the circumstances.

Arthur smiles - slow, sharp, and predatory - and something in Eames coils tight. He may have a healthy aversion to being shot, but his aversion to other kinds of danger has never been as robust as it ought to be.

“Turn around,” Arthur says. “Hands against the wall.”

“Oh, if I had a penny for every time I heard that,” Eames says, even as he complies. There’s a pat down coming, he’s certain of it.

Sure enough, moments later, Arthur is running a brisk hand down Eames’ sides, over his legs, and up the inside of his thighs. His fingers linger for an unnecessarily long time over Eames’ bollocks.

“I assure you,” Eames says, “I’m storing nothing there except the crown jewels, so to speak.”

Arthur makes a noncommittal noise, and moves to one side. “I’ll be the judge of that.” The gun hasn’t wavered a millimetre. “Clothes off. Keep your movements slow.”

“My goodness,” Eames says, batting his eyelashes at him. “But this is so sudden. We hardly know each other.”

“Breaking into my home and going through my belongings wasn’t intimate enough for you?”

Eames considers that. “You may have a point there.”

Arthur smirks and taps the gun barrel twice against Eames’ thigh. “And that’s enough stalling.”

Eames strips down, still half-facing the wall. He considers twirling his shirt and flinging it at Arthur, stripper-style (Arthur had been so admiring of it, after all). Except Arthur said to keep his movements slow, and Eames doesn’t trust him to not fire at sudden movement.

“ _All_ your clothes,” Arthur says, after Eames has divested himself of his shirt, trousers, gloves, and shoes, and kicked the lot to the side.

Eames takes his socks off slowly, one by one, in passive-aggressive rebellion, then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs. He looks at Arthur, chin tilted up in challenge, and pushes the briefs down without fanfare.

Arthur lets his gaze crawls over every inch of Eames’ body, assessing and coolly appreciative, before he finally deigns to meet Eames’ eyes. It’s not the first time Eames has seen that look. Arthur had given him variations of that look all throughout their first meeting, as he outlined the document theft job he was hiring Eames for, and every time he checked in on Eames’ progress, too.

And Eames had given him the same looks back.

He’d even made vague plans to seduce Arthur, after delivering the documents and getting paid. Only Arthur had ruined that plan, first by being out when Eames arrived (thus forcing Eames to make the delivery to Arthur’s accomplice - Don? Dom?), then by fleeing the country shortly afterwards.

No point in dwelling on it, though. Arthur has killed any chance of Eames considering another seduction, with this— this little _stunt_.

“Put your hands back on the wall, and keep your eyes forward,” Arthur says, before moving completely out of view.

There’s the scrape of a drawer being opened somewhere behind Eames, followed by vague clinks and rattling. Eames locks his limbs, resisting every instinct that’s telling him to turn. He has no doubt that Arthur is watching him, still has that gun trained on him.

A rustle, and Arthur returns, standing just beyond Eames’ peripheral vision again. “Hands behind your back.”

Cold metal loops around Eames’ wrists when he obeys, ratcheting tight, and part of Eames is actually _disappointed_ , because it isn’t as if he’s a stranger to handcuffs. Handcuffs Eames can handle, and Arthur’s imagination must be woefully limited if he thinks otherwise.

Arthur manhandles Eames over to the desk by the window, then puts a hand on his back, right between his shoulder blades, and pushes. “Bend over.”

Eames complies silently, thankful he’s facing away, so Arthur can’t see him roll his eyes. If it’s the humiliation game Arthur is playing, he’s got a long ways to go. Eames has been humiliated into the very dust by people bigger, badder, and far uglier than Arthur. He doubts there’s anything Arthur can—

“Spread your ass cheeks,” Arthur says, stepping back.

Eames half-straightens, looking over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

Arthur gives him a mild look. “I’m sorry, was that instruction too complicated? I’ll break it down into simpler steps.” He gestures for Eames to look back at the wall, and Eames does, jaw set, irritated with himself for reacting. “Bend over. Put one hand on each ass cheek. Spread them apart.”

 _Condescending little prick,_ Eames thinks, as he does as Arthur orders. The night air is cool on his skin, against his hole, and Eames’ face heats despite himself.

“So is this a cavity search, then?” Eames asks, with brittle cheer. “Angling for a new career in the TSA? Good plan. Always good to have a backup career. Although you can’t—” He tenses as Arthur brushes one leather-gloved finger, slick with lube, over his hole.

“Yes?” Arthur says, conversationally. “I can’t what?”

Laughter threatens to bubble up out of Eames’ throat. “You can’t seriously think I’ve secreted anything up my arse. What could I have possibly shoved up there?”

“I have no idea,” Arthur says. “But you’re an incredibly resourceful man. Who knows what you could take up here, given enough time and motivation?” He traces Eames’ rim in slow circles. It’s a maddening, almost pleasurable tickle, and Arthur does it over and over, coaxing, until Eames finds himself unclenching, relaxing, despite his best efforts to the contrary.

“There we go,” Arthur murmurs, and pushes his finger in, all the way to the knuckle.

Eames yelps, startled, and rocks forward onto his toes, instinctively moving away from the intrusion. It’s a bad idea - it only throws him off-balance, forcing him to slump against the table for purchase, and presents Arthur with even easier access to his arse.

Eames sucks in a breath as Arthur twists that finger, pumps it in and out shallowly. The mad bastard is _actually going through the motions of a cavity search_. It doesn’t hurt; the leather of Arthur’s glove is too supple, the stitching too fine, but the friction sends little bolts of sensation ricocheting through Eames’ body, making his toes curl and uncurl.

“Satisfied?” Eames asks, after half a minute passes, trying to ignore the arousal blooming low in his belly. His voice isn’t nearly as steady as he’d like. “Nothing up my sleeves, nothing up my— _oh fuck,_ ” he gasps, as Arthur pushes another finger into him.

“You know, this is the only problem I had with you,” Arthur says. His breath is coming quicker. “You were always talking. You never knew when to shut up.”

“Oh, well, you should’ve said something sooner,” Eames says, even as his mental vocabulary starts whittling down to one-syllable words like _yes_ , and _good_ , and _more_. “Filled out a— a client satisfaction survey, or put a note in the suggestion box.”

Arthur sighs and lays the gun barrel along Eames’ cheek for a moment, like the press of a lover’s hand. “Enough. Shut up.”

Eames shuts up. Partly because of the threat - he has two old bullet wounds that ache in cold weather, along with unpleasant memories of recovery and infection - but mostly because continuing to talk runs the risk of letting a series of embarrassing noises spill forth. And Eames is determined to come out of this with a modicum of his dignity intact.

Difficult, because, under normal circumstances, Eames loves being fingered. Loves the flex and pressure of being stretched open, the way skilled fingers can seek out every pleasurable spot inside him, no matter how tiny. Lately, however, the only skilled fingers Eames has had inside him are his own, because every bloke he picked up had taken one look at him - his shoulders, his bulk, his tattoos - and immediately gotten the wrong idea.

Two fingers in him become three, and Eames clenches down - all the better to feel it as Arthur spreads his fingers, opens him up anyway. Eames presses his face against the tabletop, the polished wood cool against his flushed skin. His cock is more than half-hard now, filling further with every thrust of Arthur’s fingers. Eames grits his teeth tight, but can’t stop his hips from jerking - small, futile movements, seeking friction, relief, escape— _anything_.

“What’s this?” Arthur asks, still in that damnable conversational tone. “Nothing to say now? No smart remarks, no clever observations?”

Eames opens his mouth, ready to deliver a whole _volley_ of clever observations, but Arthur curls his fingers then, brushing that lit-up bundle of nerves inside him, and a moan punches out of Eames instead. That low, steady bloom of arousal spikes upward, a hot pulse of pleasure that gets his cock leaking, has Eames suddenly craving more.

He rocks up onto his toes, then shoves himself back onto Arthur’s fingers, tries to set the pace—

Arthur shifts, and there’s the weight of the gun pressing against his Eames’ back. A frisson of fear snakes down Eames’ spine, but rather than dampening his arousal, it twines with it, ramps it up into something vicious and electric.

“This isn’t for you to dictate,” Arthur says. “Keep still.”

Eames clenches around his fingers again, breathing hard. He grins back at Arthur, more a baring of teeth than a smile. “Oh, is that what your tastes run to? Unmoving, unresponsive partners?”

Arthur’s expression tightens. He pulls his fingers out of Eames, steps back, and a small noise of disappointment escapes from Eames’ throat before he can clamp down on it. His disappointment is short-lived; Eames hears shuffling, the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and he braces himself for the blunt intrusion of Arthur’s cock, the hard, punishing pace that Arthur is likely to set.

It doesn’t come.

After a handful of seconds pass, Eames risks another glance over his shoulder.

Arthur is sitting in the armchair on the other side of the room, looking both imperious and obscene with his cock hanging out of his pants, red and wet. He’s still cradling the gun in one hand, but nearly all of Eames’ attention is drawn to the thick length of Arthur’s prick, the slow, lazy way Arthur is palming himself, condom tucked between two fingers.

“Since you’re so keen on moving—” Arthur gives his cock another leisurely stroke, then rolls the condom on, one-handed. “Come here.”

Eames goes to him. He puts one knee on the seat cushion, moving to straddle Arthur, but Arthur stops him with a hand.

“No,” Arthur says. “I don’t want you getting anything on my clothes. Turn around.”

Eames doesn’t budge. He looks down his nose at Arthur as he says, coolly, “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. He trails a careless finger up the underside of Eames’ cock, and the traitorous fucking thing _throbs_ , a slow dribble of pre-come leaking from the slit. Eames’ face heats as Arthur smirks.

“Seems I have reason to be sure,” Arthur says. He raises the gun and sketches a lazy circle in the air. “Go on.”

Eames does so, teeth gritted. He keeps them gritted as Arthur gives him more directives, pushing and pulling with his free hand until Eames is kneeling up, balanced precariously on the seat, knees on either side of Arthur’s thighs. Eames can’t twist to see what he’s doing, not without unbalancing himself, but Arthur’s hand, fingers still tacky with lube, comes up to steady him— no, urge him down.

The most efficient course of action, Eames thinks, would be to ride Arthur hard and fast. Get him off as quickly as possible, then knock the gun out of his hand while he's coming down from his orgasm. Or maybe Eames could work Arthur up, and then strike: rear back, headbutt Arthur, drive an elbow into his solar plexus. Do it when Arthur is close to coming, to add insult to injury.

Eames takes a deep breath, steadying himself, muscles coiled and ready— and does none of that.

He sinks down onto Arthur slowly, in one continuous push. Sets an even slower pace, a steady rocking of his hips that takes Arthur in deep, lets Eames feel every inch of him. The smooth rasp of Arthur’s clothing against the bare skin of his thighs and arse makes him shiver, keenly aware of his nakedness. Eames is hardly a prude, but—

“That’s it,” Arthur says, putting a hand on the small of Eames’ back. “That’s the way, that’s good.”

He’s almost indolently still beneath Eames, even as his breathing roughens. Save for the light, guiding pressure of his hand, and the occasional upward thrust, he’s letting Eames do all the work. Making a point of it, like a lord accepting his dues, and indignation unfurls in Eames’ chest, clashing with the banked heat low in his belly. It doesn’t stop him moving, though. Doesn’t stop him fucking himself down onto Arthur’s cock.

“I knew it,” Arthur says. His voice curls like smoke, insidious and alluring, and Eames’ skin goes prickly-hot. “I knew you’d be like this. Fuck, look at you. I should've just paid you ride my cock every night, instead of working that shitshow of a job.” He caresses Eames’ back, then grips the handcuffs and tugs hard, until he can put his mouth to Eames’ ear; Eames feels, more than sees, Arthur’s lips curve into a smirk. “Or would you have done it for free?”

Eames jerks his head away. “You’re incredibly smug for a man who only manages to get sex at gunpoint.” The words come out ragged, nowhere near as barbed as he wants them to be.

Arthur laughs, breathless. “I could throw this gun out the window, and you wouldn’t leave. You’d stay right where you are because you’re enjoying this.” He punctuates his words with a hard thrust, and Eames’ mouth drops open on a moan, pleasure skittering across every nerve. “You want this.”

Eames can’t come up with a single coherent word in response. Arthur keeps rolling his hips up to meet Eames, letting go of the handcuffs in favour of gripping Eames’ hip. His fingers twitch reflexively every now and then like he’s squeezing a trigger, and _God_ , Eames wants to go off. He’s getting close to the edge, but it’s not enough like this, not with Arthur's cock alone. Eames’ own cock is a heavy, neglected weight between his legs, bouncing wetly with every movement. Eames fucks himself down harder like he can wring his orgasm out through force alone.

He gets no closer, and Eames grunts, bucking in Arthur’s lap as arousal twists into frustration.

Arthur’s fingers brush his balls, light and fleeting. “Do you need something?” he asks, mock-solicitous. When Eames pushes forward into his hand, making a mindless noise of want, Arthur _tsks,_ and moves his hand away. “Use your words, Mr. Eames. What do you need?” The smirk returns to his voice. “Come on. You’re so good at talking, usually.”

“You want me to shut up, and now you want me to talk,” Eames grits out, but all it gets him is laughter. He glares back at Arthur. “You know what I need, you bastard.”

Arthur grins, all teeth. “You have to say it.”

 _Fuck you,_ Eames wants to say.

He wants to clench his jaw, press his lips together, trap every groan and gasp that’s welling up from deep within him, except— except Arthur circles the head of Eames’ cock with thumb and forefinger, leather slipping over slick, sensitised flesh. He does it for barely a handful of seconds, but it’s enough to send Eames rocketing right up to that razor edge - the edge and no further - and the words burst out of Eames, desperate:

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, _alright_ , I want—”

“ _Need,_ ” Arthur corrects, because he’s a relentless fucking bastard, and it should be humiliating, the way the words leap so readily to Eames’ lips, but Eames is beyond caring. Fuck control, fuck dignity, fuck anything beyond satisfying his desire to come, and come hard.

“I need your hand,” Eames pants out. “I need you to make me come.” Then, unbidden, the word slipping out before he can stop it: “ _Please._ ”

“There we go,” Arthur says, near-cooing the words with sudden, patronising warmth. “I knew you could do it.”

There’s a clatter. The gun being dropped, Eames realises distantly, but he doesn’t give a shit, because Arthur has wrapped one hand around his cock, is gripping his hip with one hand, and finally, _finally_ fucking into Eames properly.

Arthur snaps his hips up, hard and jolting, sets a pace that’s just shy of brutal. It’s the pace Eames has been expecting - _anticipating_ \- all along, and now that he’s getting it, it’s all Eames can do to keep up. He rides out Arthur’s thrusts with rolls of his hips, shoves back onto Arthur when he can. Lets every sound that he’d been biting back slip out: an almost continuous stream of moans, peppered with disjointed praise every time Arthur screws back into him while rubbing his palm over the head of his cock.

Eames tips his head back against Arthur’s shoulder, leans more of his weight against him. The handcuffs force him to arch his back, but it’s worth it, for the way Arthur sinks that last extra inch into him. For the split-second flash of surprise that Eames glimpses, out of the corner of his eye, on Arthur’s face.

Then Arthur grins, bright and sharp as a blade. And when Arthur puts his mouth to Eames’ ear again, Eames doesn't jerk away. He leans closer, almost nuzzling Arthur, straining to hear him past the roar of blood in his ears, the rasp of his own breathing.

“God, you were made for this,” Arthur is saying. His breath is hot against Eames’ skin, his voice even hotter. “You’re taking it so easily, but you’re so desperate, how long has it been?” He takes his hand off Eames’ hip - doesn't stop jerking Eames with the other, thank Christ - so he can reach behind Eames’ balls, trace his fingers over the spot where they're joined. “You want more, don’t you? You’re stuffed full, but you still want more, you’re that fucking greedy.”

His tone is filthy, degrading, and it shouldn’t be arousing, but it is because Eames’ wires have been crossed for as long as Eames can remember. And when Arthur sets his teeth against the shell of Eames’ ear, and bites hard, a bright edge of pain limning the pleasure, that does it.

Eames’ eyes roll back into his head as his orgasm hits: a white-hot jolt of lightning as exhilarating as his very first heist, as satisfying as going all in with a bad hand and winning. It's every vice, every dangerous thrill Eames has ever sought out rolled into one, and it leaves him breathless, his body trembling from the aftershocks, part of him already craving more.

Eames usually goes pliant after coming, lazy and sated, leaving his partners to do what they will. He can’t do that now. Arthur is still fucking him at that near brutal pace, rough enough to send Eames crashing off onto the floor if he goes limp. But, moreover, Eames doesn’t _want_ to stop moving.

He tenses his thighs, rears up, even as his muscles scream in protest, redoubling his efforts to ride out Arthur’s thrusts.

Arthur laughs. There’s no mocking edge to it now, just a vicious sort of approval, or perhaps amazement. He starts stroking Eames again, as if in reward, his glove now slick with Eames’ come, and Eames _writhes_.

Jerking his hips forward sends him into the tight clutch of Arthur’s fist and the drag of leather; squirming away from that drives him down onto Arthur’s cock. Eames is overstimulated, overwhelmed, the pleasure edging into pain, but it’s all the better, more intense for it. His nerves are alight, every one of his senses hyperaware. His world has narrowed down to the thickness of Arthur’s prick spreading him open, the obscene slap of Arthur’s balls against his arse; the smell of sweat and come and leather, and the look in Arthur’s eyes - dark and pleased - whenever Eames glances back.

“You can take this,” Arthur says. “Whatever I give you, you can take, can’t you?”

Eames nods, dumbly, his mouth slack, pushed beyond speech.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, satisfied. He says it again, the word going jagged at the end, and Eames clenches tight around him. Arthur’s grip turns almost bruising, and he comes in rough, jerky movements. Eames grinds down against him throughout it, like he can score the feel of this into his very skin - like a brand, a tattoo, keep it with him forever - if he does it hard enough.

Eames’ brain only starts coming back online when Arthur goes still beneath him. It catalogues the state of his body in fragmented snapshots: his wrists are scraped-raw from straining against the handcuffs; the muscles of his thighs are burning; his whole body is trembling, a combination of exertion and residual adrenaline.

“Christ,” Eames says, the word more breath than actual sound. He rolls his shoulders, stretches, which sets off a cascade reaction of muscle twinges and pins-and-needles tingling. Every part of him aches, and it’s fucking _fantastic_.

Arthur huffs out a laugh. He skims a hand over Eames’ shoulder and down his arm, squeezing the bicep for a moment, appreciative. “I’m not your reclining chair, Eames,” he says, still breathing hard. “Get off.”

Eames grins and stretches again, luxuriating, making a show of it. “I already did.”

He’s anticipating the shove that follows, is already moving to get his feet under him. Eames staggers as his feet hit the floor, but he doesn’t go face-first into it, at least. He rights himself quickly and pivots to face Arthur, ready for a backhand, a punch, that long-threatened bullet. His heartbeat picks up, and his spent cock twitches.

But Arthur does nothing, other than strip the condom off and tuck himself back into his pants. He looks up at Eames with a small smile playing about his mouth, and a bright, speculative gleam in his eyes.

“Ruined your clothes after all,” Eames says, goading. He jerks his chin at Arthur’s gloves, which are still slick with Eames’ come.

Arthur smirks. “And you thought I was just being cocky.” He peels the gloves off, then stands and starts putting the rest of his clothing to rights, movements quick and efficient. He subjects Eames to another one of those head-to-toe scrutinising looks, and Eames straightens up, preening openly at the attention.

Arthur smiles wider, all lazy satisfaction. He steps closer to Eames, until they’re almost nose to nose, and tilts his head. “Do you know what you were sent here to steal?”

Eames shakes his head, but the bulk of his attention on the sly curve of Arthur’s mouth, the pink temptation of it.

“Want to find out?” Arthur asks. He steps back without waiting for an answer, and Eames surges forward, closing the distance between them again.

He presses his lips to Arthur’s, makes the kiss open-mouthed and wet from the outset. Arthur’s hands come up immediately to grip his arm, the back of his head. Eames’ hands are still bound, but he pushes closer, presses against Arthur from chest to thigh, backing him up until he hits the wall with a thump.

Arthur winds his fingers into Eames’ hair, then yanks Eames’ head back, breaking the kiss.

“Do you want this,” he asks, reaching down with his other hand to squeeze Eames’ arse, “or do you want to find out what’s in the safe?”

“Both,” Eames says, never mind that it’s far too soon for him to come again.

Arthur brushes his mouth over Eames’, keeping his fingers tight in Eames’ hair. “Greedy of you,” he says, with no apparent disapproval.

“What’s the point of pushing boundaries if all you’re going to do is accept limits after?” Eames replies. “If that makes me greedy, then so be it.”

Arthur hums, agreeing. He pulls a key out of his pocket and slips it into Eames’ hand. “Get yourself free, then I’ll show you.”

 

* * *

 

What’s in the safe is a metal suitcase, slightly battered at the corners.

Eames would be underwhelmed, were it not for the way Arthur strokes reverently, handling it with care, the complete opposite of how he handled Eames (although Eames is hardly complaining about said handling). It’s valuable, whatever is in there. Whether it’s interesting is another matter.

“Money?” Eames guesses. “Drugs? _Diamonds?_ ” None of them seems much like Arthur’s style, though.

“Drugs?” Arthur repeats, thoughtful. His smile is slight and restrained now, like a card dealer asking Eames if he’s in or out. “I suppose you could say drugs. But, believe me, it’s not like anything you’ve ever experienced before. It’s like nothing you could ever imagine.”

It’s a line Eames has heard before. It’s never turned out to be true - Eames can imagine a lot - but he’s willing to take the gamble, especially in light of Arthur himself. Dangerous and unpredictable as nitroglycerin, liable to blow Eames’ hand off if he plays for too long, and all the more alluring for it. Even if whatever is in the suitcase turns out to be a disappointment, Arthur isn’t.

Eames grabs him by the lapel, drags him in for another kiss, hard and demanding. When he pulls back, Arthur is sporting that blade-sharp grin again.

“Show me,” Eames says.

Arthur does.


End file.
